


A Little Less Conversation

by backinblack (ginandironic)



Category: Blade: Trinity (2004), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginandironic/pseuds/backinblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's a good look for you," came the disembodied voice, right as Dean pulled himself onto all fours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Less Conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kyrene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrene/gifts).



> Written for kuwamiko, because woman loves her some bottom!Dean. Hannibal King is stolen solely from the Blade: Trinity interpretation of the Marvel Comics character.

The bar was dark, dingy and unremarkable. Dean had spent a lot of his life in bars, so this was nothing new, but even in a dive, you expected the staff to bother with a courtesy wipe of the counters. His jacket had a smudge of something sticky and dark on the sleeve, and it wasn't looking like it was rubbing off anytime soon. Leather was a bitch to clean.

The chatter, shitty music and whatever football game was on the big screen all conspired against his getting the bartender's attention. He gave up and tried using a napkin on the tacky spot, but nothing. Little flakes of white paper stuck and made the stain that much more obvious.

John Winchester never had these problems. That jacket was a fucking heirloom -- not once had John so much had spilled coffee on it. Sulfur and ghoul entrails, that was a whole different story, and Dean had the pathetically cheap wish for his dad to still be alive so he could ask him for cleaning tips.

As far as cities went, Denver was not where you expected to find vampires. Third day in the city, and so far all Sam had managed to find was some lame fake coven filled with acne-ridden teenagers. If there hadn't been blazing neon signs of real vampire activity, Dean would have bailed by now. They had _one_ lead, and it was this dump masquerading as a pool hall. Two of the victims had been last spotted downing pitchers not ten feet from where Dean was sitting, and two was enough to be a lead at this point.

He'd left Sam to do research back at the motel, or to wander around the city geeking out; whatever he wanted, so long as it was on his own. Space was a precious commodity, and Dean hadn't wanted to spend another minute sitting around with Sam glued to his hip. They still hadn't worked out the kinks, and Dean felt like his skin stretched too tight around his bones when the all too common silences started to creep in. Better to do reconnaissance of his own, on his own time, and the beer at the end of the day was a nice bonus. He hoped Sam was enjoying the breathing room half as much as he was.

So far, no one had eyed him up for any other reason than the usual you'd find in a skeevy bar, and he was two beers down and thinking about a third. If one of the vampires did decide to show up, Dean couldn't risk going after them without backup and total sobriety, so tailing might be the extent of his ability. _If_ one of the fuckers showed up, emphasis on if.

Another barfly gave him what she clearly thought was an enticing leer, and Dean decided a third beer was totally the best decision if he was going to put up this shit. First, he had to piss. He slid the empty bottle at the bartender and hefted himself off the stool stiffly. Spending most of your life in a car wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

He did the usual sweep at the john's threshold; it was empty, but for one other guy, and he looked too busy staring down at his own dick to care much about Dean's entrance. Dean walked over and unzipped.

Almost immediately, the other occupant eagerly piped up with, "How you doin'?" He nodded over his shoulder at Dean, completely unperturbed by their locale.

It wasn't urinal etiquette, that was for damn sure, but it wasn't the skeeviest thing that had happened to him with his fly down. He pointedly turned his attention to the wall and cleared his throat. "Fine."

"Good, good. That's…" he rolled his shoulders, and Dean tensed, seeing it in his peripheral. Stranger's gaze returned to Dean, brown eyes like laser beams. Creepy. Dean's hackles rose; probably not a vamp, but he could be a psycho or just a weird asshole. "Good."

Dean ignored him and went back to the business at hand. Which was hard to do with this freaking guy nearly hanging over his shoulder. He was just above to tuck himself in when Creepy McLoser started up again.

"Nice night, huh?"

Dean gritted his teeth. He turned his head slowly to the left, as obvious as possible, as _rude_ as possible, doing a body check most guys would have had the sense (or survival instinct) to keep on the down-low. No pun intended.

He took it all in with as much tactless relish as he could muster; the black motorcycle jacket that no doubt came without the implied motorcycle -- douchebag – and then the unzipped jeans slack around his hips. Commando. This shit just got better and better. "Listen, buddy," he started, saving the dick for last, his fucking pièce de résistance, and just making himself look made _his_ skin crawl. Although, hey, he didn't need to compensate for anything, unless he was a shower. Even then. Impressive.

Dude didn't so much as turn away. Dean finally let himself blink and went to look back up at his face, but then he saw it.

It wasn't the most common mark, even when hunting was your line of work, so it took him a few seconds to process what he was seeing. A tattoo; tiny, vaguely hieroglyphic, innocuous and unsurprisingly right above his _dick_. It wasn't anything he'd seen in his dad's journal, but Bobby showed him some intel on nests who'd _modernized_, used tats like their own personal bar codes.

Hey, if vampires wanted to go around branding themselves with what amounted to a giant 'I HAVE FANGS' sign, good for them. It made Dean's job easier.

He didn't particularly want to fight with his junk still hanging out, so he acted cool and zipped up. Feet planted firmly, he pulled his Colt and aimed it double-handed at what should have been the vamp's head. A microsecond of confusion, pointing at thin air, and something smashed into his wrist.

The Colt went clattering to the floor, and before Dean could make a dive for it, it was kicked away into a stall. Dean didn't hesitate; he threw a punch with his less-injured hand, luckily his right, and his fist connected solidly with the dude's bottom lip. He didn't have time for a follow through. There was a snap against his cheek; one-two punch, a left lead that came back with a right cross that made pretty patterns explode inside his skull.

Whoever this fucker was, he was well-trained. This wasn't just the souped-up reflexes of a bloodsucker. This was hardcore, maybe military -- most likely something worse. Dean reeled so hard and long, he was terrified he'd pass out right there, that's all she wrote. He didn't, but the guy took the opportunity to get him in a headlock. He tried to throw it off.

"Ah, ah, ah," he taunted, right up against Dean's ear. "Not so much."

He let go and shoved Dean forward in one motion, foot on his back making sure he followed the inertia all the way down to the floor. It had happened in less than fifteen seconds. Dean couldn't catch his breath, could hardly see, and he wondered where in the hell Castiel was to get him out of _certain death_.

"Really. That's no way to treat strangers!"

"Fuck you, you're a Renfield," Dean spat, mustering as much menace as he could with his cheek pressed into nasty tile.

"Your mother's a Renfield," he countered, using his boot to grind Dean's face and dignity a little further into the floor. "Also, no, I am not."

"Yeah," Dean growled, breath whooshing from him when a sure hand suddenly twisted his arm nearly out of its socket. "I'm the king of England."

"No, seriously, I'm one of the good guys. We're on the same case." He leaned his weight onto the foot pressed to Dean's neck, just enough to remind Dean to pay attention. He would have pulled the exact same move, if the situation were reversed. "I was _going_ to suggest we team up and take out the nest together, but then you had to get all confused and shove your gun in my face. That's not very sportsmanlike." He tsked.

"You going to let me up, or are we going to do this until last call?"

There was a moment of hesitation while he clearly was deciding Dean's fate. It either ended here with a broken neck, and likely another trip downstairs, or he was going to be spared. Neither option sat well with him; being backed into a corner like a trapped rat never did.

He closed his eyes in instinctive relief when he felt the pressure against his neck fall away. The vice grip around his wrenched arms went lax too, but he waited until the guy gave him a few feet of space before daring to move.

"That's a good look for you," came the disembodied voice, right as Dean pulled himself onto all fours.

He answered with an annoyed grunt, still not testing his luck. Once on his feet, he could see them both in the mirror above the sinks. Dean was not a pretty picture; his cheek was bruised and red, one eye already swelling shut. Mystery man, on the other hand, was as cool as a cucumber. He was backed up against the door, arms folded across his chest, eying Dean like the whole thing was funny as a Saturday morning cartoon.

Dean turned around, arms loose at his sides. He wasn't much of a threat, that much was absurdly obvious, but he'd learned the hard way that playing omega kept you safe rather than sorry. It was, like, the second time in his whole freaking life that he'd had to bow down and take it. The fact that it was to some asshole _vampire_ pretending to play good rankled. At least Alistair had inspired a healthy dose of fear whenever Dean looked at him. All Dean was inspired to do to this guy was to punch his stupid, bearded face in.

As if he was reading Dean's thoughts, the asshole grinned. It would have been blinding, had there not been a thick film of blood on both rows of teeth. Dean felt an animal pang of satisfaction at seeing it; his knuckles were still stinging from that punch.

He came closer, and Dean inched his way toward the stalls, keeping space between them. All he did was turn on a faucet and cup his hands under it, one eye still on Dean in the mirror. Okay, so he was stronger, taller, armed to the teeth, _and_ he was apparently not stupid. Dean's hope of regaining the upper hand was fading fast.

"You say you're a vampire hunter?" Dean asked, not bothering to weed the skepticism out of his tone.

He swished tap water around in his mouth and spit it out with a wince. Watery blood dribbled down his lip, and Dean watched him like a hawk as he wiped it away with his thumb. "Just call me Buffy."

"Cute. How come I've never heard of you?"

"Sure you have. Heard of Blade, right? Heard of his little personal army, the Nightstalkers?" Dean nodded. "Well, for one, don't call us that; we're a totally bonafide organization that had nothing to do with Blade until we saved his ass. For two, I'm Hannibal King, your friendly neighborhood Nightstalker. I have pamphlets in my car, if you're interested in joining."

Dean stared at Hannibal King, freak extraordinaire, until the silence stretched thick and uncomfortable, and eventually King coughed and awkwardly shifted around. Dean did him a favor. "I'm Dean Winchester," he said.

"I know. I spotted your Impala in the parking lot. Sweet ride. When'd your daddy give it to you?"

Dean pursed a tight smile, just to let the asshole know he wasn't playing along. He couldn't risk being a smart-ass back, not without his gun. There was a blessed silver knife tucked into the side of his boot, but if the guy truly wasn't a vampire, the thing was as useful as a pigsticker. "Six years ago. That's an awfully conspicuous tattoo you got, for a Nightstalker. Wouldn't that get you kicked out of the club?"

Somewhere under that unflattering facial hair, King's lips pressed together in a moue of irritation. Dean had to admire such serious commitment to de-prettification. If you didn't look too closely, you assumed King really might be the ripped, scruffy badass _he_ thought he was, but it was in Dean's job description to look closely. There was a faint scar high above his cheekbone; someone else had looked close, probably, and tried to pound the last of the prettyboy from King's smug face. The scar only highlighted the obvious. Maybe an eye-patch or a disfiguring burn would do the trick. Dean would be only too happy to oblige.

"You kidding? It gives me street cred." He spread his arms, and Dean could see his shoulder holster with its obviously modded Smith &amp; Wesson 610. "Five years on a leash, and all I got was the stupid t-shirt."

Well. That made a little more sense. Most vampires Dean had the misfortune to meet would have been happily snacking on his platelets by now. "Familiar?" he asked.

"Not so much. I was a vampire, you were right about that, but somebody gave me the cure and now I'm on the wagon."

Dean couldn't tamp down on an immediate sneer. "_Cure_? I'm not buying what you're selling, buddy. There's no cure."

"Sure there is!" He snapped back into a grating sing-song, eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile to match. "You just don't run in the right circles."

"Apparently." Nonplussed, Dean rolled his shoulders and eyed Hannibal with something he might call curiosity. "So what's your plan? Go after the nest and _cure them_?"

He snorted. "Hardly. I was thinking more along the lines of some hack and slash. You up for it?"

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Well, now's as good a time as any, and I'm ready to go. Do you want to call your brother or are you not in the mood to babysit?"

"Sam can handle himself," was a growled and instinctual reaction, though Dean's lower brain was busy bitching about how Sam might not even be in the same town anymore, maybe sneaking off with his black-eyed girlfriend. Again.

"I'm sure he can," Hannibal said, conciliatory and still full of it. "I'm just not in the mood for a third wheel."

Dean's reply was cut off by the bathroom door swinging open. A probable douchebag wearing a trucker hat (No Fat Chicks; again, probable douchebag) came in and gave both of them a weird look. Dean still tasted blood and there was a nice smear of it under King's lip. Evidently the new guy's urge to piss outweighed his desire to ask what the fuck was going on, because he did his business without comment.

"Whatever," Dean said finally. "I'm leaving. I'd say don't follow me, but I have a feeling you're not going to listen."

"Pretty much."

Dean rolled his eyes and started to think of the best way to casually duck into the stalls to retrieve his Colt.

"Hey," Hannibal said cheerfully, breezing his way out the door. "Don't forget your gun."

Dean banged his way into the stall and stuffed the damn gun into the back of his pants. The guy standing at the urinals was doing his best not to freak out, and Dean appreciated his prudence.

\--

"So," Hannibal said, meeting Dean at the exit to the bar and matching his stride. "Are we fucking before we go kill the nest, or do we do it after? Personally, I'm all for a post-victory sexual celebration, but you seem like the type who doesn't want to wait."

He nearly tripped on gravel. "_What_?"

"Oh, come on," Hannibal scoffed, "don't play dumb. You and me?" He gestured to encompass the not-unremarkable space between them. "Sexual tension. You could cut it with a knife. Or spread it with a knife. Whatever the expression is."

Dean's stony expression must have spoken volumes, because Hannibal looked away, though he was still smirking and strolling along like he didn't have a care in the world. Dean couldn't believe he was vaguely considering taking the guy up on his offer, but then again, it had been a while, and this dude was _easy_.

"Do you really think you're getting in my pants? Because I don't think I can hunt with someone completely delusional."

Hannibal laughed. "Oh, please. I've been watching you, Winchester, and you're all high-strung and jumpy from your sojourn in hell. I've never been, myself, but I _have_ seen people snap, and you're going to unless you work off some of that excess energy." He swerved closer, coming dangerously close to Dean's bubble of personal space. "I'm doing you a favor, if you want to look at it that way."

Dean pretended to consider, although it was hard to keep a straight face in the wake of such unmitigated bullshit. "Do your pickup lines ever actually work?" he asked, idly swirling his keychain around his thumb, nearly at the Impala.

"Do yours?"

Dean unlocked the car and opened the door, stepped back and turned around to look at King. "Sometimes."

The smile he got in response wasn't smug, for once. It was full of promise. Pornographic promise. Dean flushed. "We should compare notes."

"Right." The metal of the door was bitingly cold against his palm, and Dean couldn't quite meet the knowing, self-satisfied glint in King's eyes. He ducked inside and made to close the door, but King stopped it with a firm hand. "What?"

"You're staying at the Super 8," King said. "So am I. Happy coincidence."

"You're kind of terrifying, you know that?"

King only smiled and closed the door on Dean's half amused, half wary expression. He rapped the hood of the Impala before stalking off to his truck, tucking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

\--

It took him until the driveway of the Super 8 to decide if he was going go to the room he shared with Sam and close the door on Hannibal King, literally and metaphorically. The twin beams of King's headlights were distracting in his rearview, directly behind him the whole way from the bar. Dean adjusted his grip on the wheel and tried to focus on the road. Focus on the hunt, on the Boston playing softly in the background. Focus on anything other than the man following less than two car lengths behind him.

Dean held his breath and passed the parking space in front of his room, and slowed down enough to let King swerve around him to take the lead. King was a few rooms away from his own but close enough to make Dean uneasy, and he sandwiched his giant Dodge Ram between two compact cars. Dean parked further down the row of spaces, keeping clear of any potential wayward doors or anything else likely to scratch the Impala.

King got out of his truck and sauntered over to Dean, but surprisingly, he didn't look overbearingly smug. He glanced at Dean and raised an eyebrow. "Not going to check in with Sam?"

"Yeah, and tell him what? Don't wait up; I'm screwing someone with a potentially evil tattoo down the hall?"

"Don't wait up should cover it."

Shaking his head, Dean fished his cell phone out of his jacket and texted Sam, feeling like a walking cliché -- don't wait up, fucking honestly. When he looked up, King had unlocked his door and was standing in the threshold, waiting for Dean. A light flickered overhead, and the hum of a nearby vending machine was obnoxiously loud.

He couldn't kill the hesitation, no matter what he'd decided. It could have been one hell of a pointlessly elaborate trap, and Dean knew it, or it could have been the proximity to Sam. He'd fucked girls with Sam waiting outside the door, and memorably once in the same room, so the odds of it being that were slim. Dean didn't like feeling twitchy. He liked it even less when it was preempting his getting laid.

"Maybe," he stalled, "maybe this wasn't such a hot idea."

King walked further into the room, shucking his jacket and throwing it across a small table set in the corner of the room, its surface strewn with take-out menus and a laminated cable channel listing. "Whatever, man. My invitation's open-ended." He pulled off his holster and gun, laying them on the table, and Dean didn't miss the significance of the gesture. Although he doubted that was the only thing King was carrying, in terms of weapons.

When King pulled a blade out of his boot and chucked it carelessly next to his other crap, Dean sighed and gave in to the inevitable. It had been a _long time_.

King didn't have the grace to look surprised. "Sit down, stay a while," he said, waving vaguely at the unmade king -- hah -- bed.

Dean sat, and accepted the bottleneck King dug out of the mini-fridge. He was already a few beers down, but barely even buzzed, so he swallowed fast to speed up the liquid courage. The last time he'd fucked around with a guy had been before his trip downstairs, and even then it made him cagey, uncomfortable in his own skin. Dean was reasonably sure he could take on anyone, even some gym-obsessed tool, but the physicality of men was starkly different from women. He could toss a woman around like a paper doll. If he wanted to. A six foot something guy was a different story.

"Penny for your thoughts." Dean shrugged and took a swig. "Not in the mood for small talk?" He came closer, head cocked and face serious. Dean was expecting more bullshit, but he just took the bottle from Dean's hand and sipped before setting it down next to the tv.

There was a fraction of a difference in their height; there was less than a fraction of space between them. King was warm and staring at Dean in a way that made him think about the shit he'd let King get away with, and Dean leaned in to close the gap. Waiting.

King's mouth tasted faintly of stale beer and coffee, and strongly of spearmint gum he'd chewed on the ride over. Dean licked into his mouth, unmindful of anything but how hot he was, how wet, how his hands came to cup Dean's jaw and angle his head where King wanted it.

Dean appreciated skill and appreciated confidence, but he didn't feel like rolling over and taking it, so he brought his own hands up and tugged the hem of King's shirt upward. The skin on his stomach was nearly as hot as his mouth, which was busy marking a path from Dean's lips to his ear, hitting a ticklish spot that made him flinch and the breath in his lungs come out like a punch.

King laughed against his skin. "Ticklish?"

Dean didn't bother with a response. He curled his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and tugged. "You gonna let me take this off?"

"Nah." He undercut it with a sharp bite to Dean's earlobe, and Dean thought he could feel him grinning, but he definitely wasn't playing around. Switching gears, he dipped his hands lower and tried the belt buckle, but no dice there either. King swatted his fingers away. "You first."

A long way from resigned but feeling generous, Dean stepped back and pulled off his jacket. He tossed it behind him on the bed; his Carhartt and t-shirt he didn't touch. At King's lack of response, Dean raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not about to start playing fair now, Winchester," King said, gesturing.

Dean rolled his eyes and took off both shirts at once, tossed them halfway across the room. "Take off your goddamn belt," he said, unflinching under King's blatant appraisal. He caught an intrigued look at the burn-shiny handprints on his arms.

"Sure," King said, not taking his eyes off Dean as he worked the buckle open. It was a big silver thing, pointy edges, embossed with something Dean couldn't make out. King's hard-on was an obvious line in his jeans, and Dean considered the last time he'd sucked cock.

Five years ago, if his distracted math was right. It wasn't something he did on a whim. He didn't do _guys_ on a whim. There was too much to deal with, too much of himself to let go of, however temporarily. King, for all his swagger and inability to shut up, wanted what Dean wanted. He wasn't going to hold it over his head or give him shit for wanting it, make it some power-play, macho thing so he could feel less of a fag for screwing a guy. Like it meant something fucked up that Dean wanted to take it.

Dean didn't let King deter him that time. He moved fast, stepping up to yank King's zipper down and got his jeans out of the way, getting on his knees in the process, and finally dragging the denim down to King's boots. His dick was full and flushed, right there, and it wasn't even a decision to lean and slide his mouth over it until he couldn't take him any deeper without choking.

The noise King made in response was _loud_. He clutched at Dean's face and rocked forward when Dean pulled back far enough to let him. He licked the head and he got a bitten off "fuck," and pressing him against the inside of his cheek got a "Jesus," even louder.

"Okay, you can spend an hour going down on me some other time, I'm way too fucking wound up." He sounded it. Dean pulled off. "Unless you want me to come on your face."

"Fuck you." He licked his lips and they felt raw, swollen in a way that had nothing to do with their earlier fight.

King laughed. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Get up on the bed."

He stood, knees protesting, and started toeing off his boots, moving his arms out of the way when King started in on Dean's pants. When the boots were off, they got everything off, leaving Dean with his amulet and a hard-on. King jacked it twice and made an approving noise when Dean swayed forward.

"Get on the bed," he repeated, and Dean did. "Wait right there," and Dean did.

He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling while King banged around, going into the bathroom and coming back out again for the requisite supplies. He came back fast, practically bounding over to the bed, and he tossed a wrapped condom at Dean. Then he was straddling Dean, kissing him, pressing him down into the unyielding, cheap motel mattress. They rubbed together, King's cock sliding over Dean's, slow and not enough. King moved off just when it was getting somewhere.

"Spread your legs," he said, about to kiss him, hovering so close Dean could only see parts of his face. An eye, iris flecked with amber, the bridge of his nose, his forehead.

Dean closed his eyes at the first wet touch, the gentle way King circled him, testing. When Dean didn't startle, he slid in all the way, a smooth glide past both knuckles. The sensation was foreign after so long; he clenched all over, barely noticing when King pressed a kiss to his shoulder and then to his neck.

The second one slid in as easy as the first, and Dean spread wider. King's fingers worked in and out of him, faster and faster, until Dean groaned and opened his eyes.

"You ready?" King asked, not obligatory; his eyes were concerned, evaluating.

"Yeah."

King kissed him on the mouth, and it turned from a slow, reassuring press into Dean sucking on his bottom lip, King doing his best to make sure anyone who looked at Dean's face in the next week would know exactly what he'd been doing.

"Roll over."

He did, awkwardly, not quite as sanguine about this part. His elbows took the brunt of his weight and the pillows he dragged into position didn't much help. He heard King rustling around behind him, the snick of lube over latex, the quickened rhythm of his breathing. The front of his thighs against the back of Dean's.

There was worse pain. He'd lived through a lot of it; bullet holes and whiskey, broken nose, dislocated shoulder, cracked rib, stab wound – a good portion of it without anything to dull the pain. He knew not to recoil from it, not to tense; to let it run its course and breathe, compartmentalize, recite exorcisms in his head. The push of King's cock inside of him wasn't bad, comparably, just a tight burn that kept going almost past the point of pleasure. It was _good_, underneath the instinctive urge to reject something that made him so vulnerable. Dean made a noise he'd deny later.

"Fuck."

Dean exhaled shakily. "Just –"

He didn't wait to hear what Dean had to say. He rolled his hips once and Dean groaned, tensing. A beat, and King did it again, this time slower, and that was good, and it got better the more he did it. The harder he did it.

"Is that how you want it?"

No way in hell Dean was answering that. He closed his mouth against noises that threatened to spill out.

"Suit," he thrust harder, "yourself."

The mattress was sliding steadily to the right, hanging over the edge of the box spring, and King's thrusts were driving Dean toward the headboard. The squeak of the springs was ominous, but Dean didn't care, could hardly hear it over his own panting and the full-body shudder he got when King pulled out and pushed back in. Every time it was a deep pressure, something really fucking good but not quite good enough, not the right angle.

And then it stopped. He felt the press of King's thighs and hips as he shifted, the shake and dip of the mattress. "This bed sucks."

"I don't give a fuck," he bit out, dropping his head and sucking in a breath of air. The elastic corner of the sheet had pulled free of the mattress, showing a dirty pad underneath. He closed his eyes against it and the way King's hands spanned Dean's hips and pulled him even closer, which should have been impossible. Dean squirmed. "Fuck me."

"You talk so pretty," he said, with what would have been mockery if he hadn't been hoarse and low.

His hips snapped back and forward again like Dean wanted them, but the sudden motion caught him unaware and he barely caught himself from faceplanting into the pillow. King groaned, fingers digging into Dean's back. He was relentless, slamming so hard Dean gritted his teeth and hissed air between them. King got louder the harder he fucked, making the enthusiasm from before seem quiet. It was hot as hell, but it was giving their next door neighbor a soundtrack impossible to tune out. Or anyone out in the hall. Maybe the parking lot.

"God, man, my brother's just down the hall."

"Then he can hear you taking it."

Dean couldn't stop the fucked up noise that strangled its way out of his throat. It didn't sound like him.

King didn't gloat. He reached and fisted a hand in Dean's hair, yanking his face up so hard his eyes stung. His clipped _ah ah ah_ got louder, the bed shaking, and Dean bit his lower lip so hard he was surprised it didn't bleed.

"Fuck, I'm close. You gonna come for me?"

It should have really bothered him that hearing that got him that much closer to coming. He couldn't jack off from his position, and he _really fucking wanted to_. King had the sense to do it for him before Dean could say anything, and his hand was as merciless as his cock, stripping him fast, the lack of lube making it just this side of too much.

"C'mon, Dean," he whispered. "Jesus, I want to hear you."

"Harder," he gritted, and King knew what he meant, fucking him so hard he really did fall forward that time.

When he came, his face was pressed against the pillow, shout muffled and seeing nothing but black behind his closed eyes.

\--

"Surprised no one came in," Dean said, "with all your racket."

King smiled. "I locked the door, genius."

"No shit." He rolled his shoulders, aching after the strain of their gymnastics and the way all the tension left his body after. It nearly always left him sore, and most of his encounters didn't involve anything quite so – whatever the hell that was.

They lay in more silence, strange only in that it wasn't uncomfortable, and Dean's body slowly started coming back to him until he realized he was cold, naked on the wrecked bed. He was about to get up and pull himself together when King shifted around meaningfully.

"Hmm."

"What?"

"Do you really think your brother could have heard us?"

He groaned and tried not to curl up and die at the thought. "I really fucking hope not." It seriously made his skin crawl. King knew, too, the unmitigated bastard, because he laughed like it was the best joke in the world.

"Speaking of your brother, are you bringing him on the vamp hunt?"

Dean shot him an incredulous look. "We're talking about this now?"

King propped himself up on an elbow and gazed down at Dean. "Well, duh. We need to figure out the logistics before I send you off to your walk of shame."

"Right." He considered it. "Sam comes with us. He gets twitchy if I leave him alone." Twitchy was an understatement. Dean couldn't think of the last time he'd been away from Sam for longer than a few hours, let alone on a hunt without him. It was pretty much inconceivable.

"Great. I finally get to meet the illustrious Sam Winchester. I was afraid I might not get to collect the matched set."

Dean laughed. "Yeah, alert the presses."

King saw him to the door after giving Dean less than helpful suggestions as to where his socks and shoes might have ended up. He'd anchored a towel around his waist so any potential passerby wouldn't get an eyeful. It was still painfully obvious, as Dean was rumpled and his hair was a joke and King was _wearing a towel_, but no actual public indecency. He kissed Dean at the door, too, like he meant it.

"See you in six hours," King said cheerfully, adding a little wave as he walked away.

Dean flipped him off.

–

END.


End file.
